wagon’s side. The cold water shook his blunted wits back into a semblance of order and gave him the illusion of cleanliness. The worst part of any long journey, from Myrddion’s point of view, was the lack of opportunities for personal hygiene.
The town of Châlons lay on the bank of a large river flowing through wide plains that were fertile in agriculture and trade. Plentiful water, a gentle climate, rich soil and long rows of poplars and vines had created an ordered, earthly Eden. Only a few low hills set off a countryside that was largely flat, except for the folds carved by the many streamlets and rivers that flowed slowly through the idyllic landscape. In this alien world of green, blue, beige and gold, Myrddion longed for the misty greys and charcoals of his mountain home.
Châlons possessed the obligatory stone walls of any prosperous city, and additional clusters of hamlets had grown up around the outskirts. Green spear-points of growth from fruit and olive trees testified to good husbandry, and vegetables of all kinds grew in neat rows around simple workers’ cottages, resembling flower beds in their regimentation and crisp beauty.
The roads and byways leading to Châlons were thick with traffic. Christian Arian priests in dirty white and Catholics in dusty black robes walked side by side with peasants carrying heaped baskets of goods bound for the marketplace. Crisp cabbages as large as a man’s head, bags of new turnips, the first legumes of spring and baskets of brown farm eggs nestling in straw competedwith new-born lambs, calves and chickens carried in wicker cages as the produce of the rural communities found its way into this major market town. Men in dirty togas, visitors in alien finery and rows of petty princelings bound for the court of Merovech and the Visigoth lords vied for space with peasants on the congested, dusty gravel.
The Frankish horsemen negotiated the bustling traffic with relative ease, forcing a path for the wagons through the throng until Myrddion eventually saw the gates of Châlons looming before them.
‘I don’t like our chances here if the Huns should attack,’ Finn murmured quietly to Myrddion as he urged his horses through the heavy wooden gates. ‘I wish we knew where the devils are. We’ve seen the fate of town dwellers throughout our journey, so I’d prefer to sleep in the open air.’
Myrddion nodded, and then pointed to the wooden ramparts built on the inside of the stone fortifications. ‘At least young warriors are manning the walls, which is an improvement on the defences we saw at Tournai and Cambrai.’
Finn peered up at the red-cloaked men who stood at regular intervals along the wall, their disciplined eyes obviously scanning the surrounding countryside for signs of unusual activity. ‘Aye! Châlons is definitely not Tournai. This town won’t be taken without warning, so I suppose we should be grateful for that small mercy.’
‘Yes, we should be grateful,’ Myrddion muttered under his breath as the wagons negotiated roads so narrow that they almost scraped the plastered buildings lining the cobbled roadways. ‘Perhaps the gods protect the ignorant.’
An unnatural silence had enveloped the quiet streets and, as they passed, women glanced up at Childeric’s face, dropped their heads respectfully, then dragged their squabbling children insidebrightly painted doors that were closed firmly behind them. ‘Whatever else Châlons might be, its population is loyal to their king and his Roman ally,’ Myrddion added, thinking of his earlier conversation with Gwylym on the moon-drenched bridge.
Neither man spoke again until the cavalcade reached a small cul-de-sac of stone and wooden buildings decorated with shuttered window openings. These buildings were narrow-fronted and opened straight onto the cobbled roadway, where a guard of red-cloaked warriors directed foot traffic away from the seat of power to other, less important streets of the
The town of Châlons lay on the bank of a large river flowing through wide plains that were fertile in agriculture and trade. Plentiful water, a gentle climate, rich soil and long rows of poplars and vines had created an ordered, earthly Eden. Only a few low hills set off a countryside that was largely flat, except for the folds carved by the many streamlets and rivers that flowed slowly through the idyllic landscape. In this alien world of green, blue, beige and gold, Myrddion longed for the misty greys and charcoals of his mountain home.
Châlons possessed the obligatory stone walls of any prosperous city, and additional clusters of hamlets had grown up around the outskirts. Green spear-points of growth from fruit and olive trees testified to good husbandry, and vegetables of all kinds grew in neat rows around simple workers’ cottages, resembling flower beds in their regimentation and crisp beauty.
The roads and byways leading to Châlons were thick with traffic. Christian Arian priests in dirty white and Catholics in dusty black robes walked side by side with peasants carrying heaped baskets of goods bound for the marketplace. Crisp cabbages as large as a man’s head, bags of new turnips, the first legumes of spring and baskets of brown farm eggs nestling in straw competedwith new-born lambs, calves and chickens carried in wicker cages as the produce of the rural communities found its way into this major market town. Men in dirty togas, visitors in alien finery and rows of petty princelings bound for the court of Merovech and the Visigoth lords vied for space with peasants on the congested, dusty gravel.
The Frankish horsemen negotiated the bustling traffic with relative ease, forcing a path for the wagons through the throng until Myrddion eventually saw the gates of Châlons looming before them.
‘I don’t like our chances here if the Huns should attack,’ Finn murmured quietly to Myrddion as he urged his horses through the heavy wooden gates. ‘I wish we knew where the devils are. We’ve seen the fate of town dwellers throughout our journey, so I’d prefer to sleep in the open air.’
Myrddion nodded, and then pointed to the wooden ramparts built on the inside of the stone fortifications. ‘At least young warriors are manning the walls, which is an improvement on the defences we saw at Tournai and Cambrai.’
Finn peered up at the red-cloaked men who stood at regular intervals along the wall, their disciplined eyes obviously scanning the surrounding countryside for signs of unusual activity. ‘Aye! Châlons is definitely not Tournai. This town won’t be taken without warning, so I suppose we should be grateful for that small mercy.’
‘Yes, we should be grateful,’ Myrddion muttered under his breath as the wagons negotiated roads so narrow that they almost scraped the plastered buildings lining the cobbled roadways. ‘Perhaps the gods protect the ignorant.’
An unnatural silence had enveloped the quiet streets and, as they passed, women glanced up at Childeric’s face, dropped their heads respectfully, then dragged their squabbling children insidebrightly painted doors that were closed firmly behind them. ‘Whatever else Châlons might be, its population is loyal to their king and his Roman ally,’ Myrddion added, thinking of his earlier conversation with Gwylym on the moon-drenched bridge.
Neither man spoke again until the cavalcade reached a small cul-de-sac of stone and wooden buildings decorated with shuttered window openings. These buildings were narrow-fronted and opened straight onto the cobbled roadway, where a guard of red-cloaked warriors directed foot traffic away from the seat of power to other, less important streets of the
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